Listen up, peasants. I have a fucking succulent on my windowsill now. Do you understand what this means?

I’m going to be insufferable about it.

The succulent is the universal symbol that I’m transitioning into Fake Adulthood—a stage of my life where I do things like buy cook books from Anthropologie but still don’t know how to make my own coffee. The stage where I have a mason jar on my dresser of loose change labeled “world travels” but my parents still pay my rent. The stage where I finally set up my Medium profile and publish think pieces about how I want Brian to break up with his girlfriend and date me instead—but I *change* Brian’s name so he can’t tell it’s really about him. But it’s definitely about him. Date me, Brian. Does your girlfriend even have a succulent? I have one.

I don’t even have to water it that often! It’s so low-maintenance! Just like me.

This fucking whimsical little succulent is the Conversation Piece of my bedroom right now. Anytime anyone has come into my room since, all they can say is: “oh, wow, is that a succulent? Do you have to water it?” I’ve taken 48 polaroids of it from multiple angles. I’ve pinned them to the little twinkle lights that hang above my bed now. Does everyone wish they were me now? I’m very creative, I think the succulent brings it out in me.

IT PULLS THE ROOM TOGETHER. IT PULLS ME TOGETHER. I am basically one with nature because it’s been two weeks and the succulent is only partially dead at this point.

Did I mention I don’t have to water it that often?

I have a fucking succulent on my windowsill now and that means I’m demanding extra respect and attention. I walked all the way to Whole Foods to buy this thing. Oh, do you not shop at Whole Foods?

You just become so much more health conscious and ~*~green~*~ when you own a succulent, I’m sure you’ll understand if you’re ever ready to buy one too. It’s a major lifestyle change, so I understand if you’re hesitant to jump on the succulent train. I’m an entirely different person now that I have one—I just think having “life” in your apartment makes you a better person. My Instagram aesthetic just went up 1,000 points.

What I’m saying is: I have a succulent, so I’m much better than you now. Objectively. Unless you have, like, a ficus in your apartment.

This is for the women who are first to get naked, howl at the moon and jump into the sea. This is for the women who seek relentless joy; the ones who know how to laugh with their whole souls. The women who speak to strangers because they have no fear in their hearts. This is for the women who drink coffee at midnight and wine in the morning, and dare you to question it. This is for the women who throw down what they love, and don’t waste time following society’s pressures to exist behind a white picket fence. The women who create wildly, unbalanced, ferociously and in a blur at times. This — is for you.

“When Janne has a new poem written, I shut my life down to do nothing but read it, and then when I turn my life back on, everything is better.” — James Altucher